


Home With Ilk

by Depraved Necromancer (DragonaireAbsolvare)



Series: Heritage [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Chief Warlock Tom Riddle, Fluff, Grandaddy incest, Harry Potter Goes to a Different School, Horses, Incest, M/M, Muggle Tom Riddle Sr, Squib Harry Potter, Tomarry Sr, Voldemort is Harry Potter's Parent, grandaddy kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:01:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27881929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonaireAbsolvare/pseuds/Depraved%20Necromancer
Summary: Sometimes, home is with ilk, not kin. But sometimes, a man can get lucky, yes?Tom Riddle Senior gets an unexpected visitor in his self-imprisonment at Riddle House.Magic, Alternate Universe, Harry is a Squib- I'm officially calling this ship Tomarry Sr.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle Sr.
Series: Heritage [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2041521
Comments: 10
Kudos: 72





	Home With Ilk

It was a lazy Saturday evening, and Tom was just putting away his dapple-grey mare into the stables when his manservant informed him that there was a visitor at the door.

“He wishes to meet you, sir, and will not be persuaded to return at an appropriate hour.”

Tom nodded at the man, and headed to the manor on the hill.

To his surprise, it was a teenage boy at the door, dressed in the familiar uniform of Eton College. He was taking in the insides of the parlour with undisguised interest. Tom peered at the boy over his glasses. “Can I help you?”

Startled, the young man broke out of his gawking and smiled brilliantly at Tom. “You’re Thomas Riddle, Esquire, right?”

Tom narrowed his eyes. “I’m afraid my father has passed on. If it is a matter of debt-”

The young man cut him off hastily. “It’s not. I’m- uh, I’m looking for my grandfather. The phone register pointed to Mordaunt Hall.”

Tom Riddle sighed. He was likely another one of those petty impostors, coming to lay claim to the Riddle property. It was a story around town that Tom did not have a successor, and ever since Thomas Riddle passed away five years ago, people had come with all sorts of tales- from being bastard children and distant cousins to gambling away deeds.

Tom rubbed his temple. “I’d appreciate it if you people stopped besmirching my father’s good name with whatever cock-and-bull tales you’ve concocted.”

The boy looked stumped, and Tom felt a flash of pity, before he quenched it and began showing the boy to the door. “Please! I’m not lying. I’m Tom Riddle’s son!”

Tom froze. “I beg your pardon?”

The boy fumbled a bit. “Tom Marvolo Riddle. I’m his son. My name is Harry.” The boy bit his tongue and added awkwardly- “Herodotus Ignotus Selwyn-Riddle.” He grimaced, as if the full name sounded disgusting in his mouth.

Oh.

Tom stopped.

Tom _Marvolo_ Riddle- that made sense.

“So, you’re Junior’s son.”

The boy nodded.

Tom narrowed his eyes. “Then, I assume you’re that sort?” He asked, running his gaze down the jacket and vest of his alma mater. The boy was an upper-year, and a popular one from the looks of it; if the white bow-tie was to speak for itself. “I thought you lot had a school for all that- witchcraft.”

The boy (really, Tom ought to call his grandson by name, but he was mildly annoyed at Junior’s blatant disregard of Riddle traditions- the boy should have been named Thomas Riddle the ninth!) smiled dryly. “Hogwarts is a school of _magic._ And I’ve got to have magic to go there, now haven’t I?”

Tom regarded his newfound grandson with increased interest. There was obvious resemblance- he had inherited the signature Riddle looks- sharp, angular bone structure and the handsome black curls- but his eyes were a stunning emerald green that looked too _magical_ to be from anything other than _that_ side of the family.

“What do you mean you haven’t got magic? The last I heard, Junior got himself a pedigree wife or something-”

The boy burst into peals of startling laughter. “Oh, Merlin! If only Mother could hear this- pedigree wife indeed!” Tom didn’t find it so amusing, so the boy explained. “It’s called Pureblood- they basically intermarry until there isn’t any Muggle blood for three centuries or so. So, yeah. Pedigree does accurately sum it up.”

Tom still didn’t get the joke, but he had an inkling of what his grandson was going on about: Junior used to often talk about ‘Filthy Muggle blood’, like the Gaunts were the epitome of greatness- Tom shuddered in disgust at the memory. Eventually, he had gotten so fed up of Junior’s proclaimed glory that he’d taken his son to witness first-hand the base squalor and wretchedness of the Gaunts in their hovel. The tramp’s son had then run at them, brandishing a gnarly piece of twig and hissing like the devil. Tom never knew what happened after that- but Junior had done something and made the tramp twitch on the ground before meekly crawling back into his shack.

Junior had _hissed_ back.

Tom hated the sound.

“Hello! Earth to Mr Riddle?” Tom snapped back when the strange boy waved a hand over his eyes. “You kinda zoned away.”

Tom blinked. “I apologise. What were you saying?”

The boy shrugged. “Nothing much. Just that I’m a squib- that’s what they call kids without magic born to magical families.”

“I see.”

***

Herodotus Ignotus Selwyn-Riddle (Harry, as he preferred to be called) was the firstborn son of Thomas Marvolo Riddle VIII, the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Eugenia Selwyn, head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation and the only daughter of Lord and Lady Selwyn.

When he was born, the Selwyn family had celebrated with great triumph- he was the product of a careful political alliance and heir to a Sacred Twenty Eight family. The moment he could talk, he was provided with tutors to be the perfect pureblood heir, and the witty and quick-learning Herodotus became the apple of his parents’ eye.

Madam Selwyn-Riddle showed him around at the DIMC and to all her high-society friends. The Chief Warlock regularly brought Herodotus Ignotus to Wizengamot meetings, as the Selwyn heir, and encouraged him to actively make connections. Political allies sang his praises to Chief Warlock Riddle, and political opponents grudgingly admitted that Harry would be a definite competition once he became of age.

Thomas Riddle began training Herodotus as his successor in all aspects. Lord Selwyn declared that there was no one more worthy to inherit the wealth, title and Wizengamot seats that came with the Selwyn Lordship.

The Selwyn-Riddle family’s glory continued for years, and when Thomas Marvolo Riddle was at the peak of his career, Herodotus Ignotus turned eleven.

And did not receive a Hogwarts letter.

Chaos broke out in the Selwyn household. Lord Selwyn said that he had suspected it- what with the second-born Ulyssa Isadora blatantly summoning things from the shelves and changing her toys. Mr Longbottom suggested throwing Herodotus down the East Tower to see if magic could be coaxed out.

And of course, Lady Selwyn agreed.

Herodotus screamed and struggled against the levitating spell, begging, pleading to his father to help him. Herodotus had known he didn’t have magic- the lack of a Hogwarts letter had only cemented that fact. And he knew falling from the East Tower would kill him.

“Then you deserve to be killed.” Riddle replied, glaring at Herodotus as though he had been betrayed.

Herodotus then clung on to his mother, who swatted him off with a stinging charm, and a few scathing words: “No son of mine will be a squib.”

And so, he was thrown.

Herodotus fell, pleading to Hecate and Merlin and Circe and whatever saints remained; alas- no magic kicked in. Magic did save him, though- someone cast ‘Arresto Momentum’ in the nick of time, and froze Herodotus a fingerbreadth from the ground. The boy flopped onto the grass uselessly, numb with fear and dead in all but physical aspects.

And then, Harry was born. And he decided that Herodotus Ignotus was dead for good. There would be no more perfect pureblood heir; there would be no more brilliant child-prodigy. Harry swore to become everything the Selwyns despised. He would become a blood-traitor, he would mingle with Muggles and succeed there, and Riddle and the Selwyn family ceased to mean anything to him.

When Harry woke again, his parents were in the middle of a terrible row. Eugenia screamed that it was Tom Riddle’s filthy Muggle blood that had caused the birth of a squib in their otherwise untarnished line. Riddle replied that it was the excessive inbreeding of Purebloods that made Harry some kind of a _deformity._

Dialogues of this ilk were things that would soon become a daily conversation in the Selwyn-Riddle household. The family that had doted on him would soon make numerous attempts to off him- poison in his food, tripping jinx on the Owlery stairs, a pain-curse too many when Herodotus couldn’t get something right.

His parents looked at him as if he was something disgusting under their nose- like maggot-infested dung.

And sometimes, Harry could not bear it. No one could be strong enough to maintain a nonchalant façade through day and night. He could not bear the way Ulyssa suddenly became the only child in the family- while Harry pretended that he did not exist.

Through no fault of his.

Was it his fault that Magic had not bestowed upon him her gift?

Of course not.

... was it?

***

Tom stretched his legs on the ancient footstool. His grandson, Harry (the boy had insisted he was not Herodotus, he was Just Harry) sat on the opposite divan, regaling him of his tales at Eton.

The old squire had been genuinely surprised when he realised Harry did not have magic, that they were truly alike- not like the strange, wicked Gaunts or even the bewildering man called Professor Dumbledore. Harry was just a normal person.

Not like the Gaunt woman.

Not like Junior.

Tom felt affection swell in his heart as Harry told him the troubles of being the Chief Warlock’s son (it was like the Parliament, and the CHief Warlock like a Speaker, Harry explained) and he even felt a spark of pride that Junior had reached such a high position.

He told Tom of his Wizarding grandparents- the Selwyns, and how different a being raised in a magical household was. Tom offered Harry a tour of the house, and the boy unashamedly gawked at mundane things like the telly and the radio.

“You would not believe how backward Wizarding technology is!” Harry exclaimed, picking up the telephone ecstatically. Tom smiled indulgently, and taught Harry to dial a few numbers. They ended up accidentally calling the police station, and Tom Riddle had to explain it away to an impatient policewoman about unruly grandchildren, and that it would not happen again.

But he was alright with it.

Having Harry around returned life to the old, lonely mansion. Tom unearthed his father’s vinyl records from the attic and played them on the gramophone, to which the boy listened happily. Apparently, wizards didn’t have musical recording. If they couldn’t make something as simple as a recorder, Tom figured Magic wasn’t really as great as Junior used to boast it was.

The boy could cook.

Harry took over the kitchen when Ethel, the cook, headed to Sunday Mass. He seemed surprised to know that Tom never attended church. For his part, Tom didn’t believe in a God who could casually put him through a devil-woman’s abuse and _then_ saddle him with the unholy product. He didn’t tell Harry that, but the boy was just as perceptive as his father, and could sense that the subject bothered Tom.

Instead, Harry cheerfully made them kippers, toast and baked beans, and they had it outside in the fields. Wallace had taken the horses out to wash them, and Tom was very pleased to see that Harry admired his horses.

Tom was _very_ proud of his horses- he had been fond of them in his youth, and after his mother’s demise, they were all he had for company. He decided to take Harry to the stables, and they spent the morning walking around and getting to know all the horses and ponies.

“Would you like to go on a ride?” Tom asked when Annabeth, the dapple-grey mare, began nuzzling into Harry’s palm. “She seems to have taken a shine to you.”

The boy looked a little unsure, so Tom guessed that he hadn’t ever ridden before.

“I could teach you, if you’d like.”

“Sure!” The boy grinned, and Tom got him outfitted in one of Junior’s old riding clothes before taking Annabeth out. Harry looked a little bit jittery, so Tom mounted the mare first, and rode around the paddock as a demonstration before pulling Harry on behind him.

“You’re pretty spry for an old man.” Harry said, wriggling into a more comfortable position. Tom immediately warned him to not upset Annabeth- although the old girl was sweet enough to not mind it terribly.

“Hold on- we’ll get you used to sitting stably before letting you ride.”

Annabeth took a few tentative steps to let Harry adjust before moving about the paddock in a slow trot. The boy gasped at the first movement, clearly unsettled, and a hand grasped Tom’s shirt tightly. The starched material was sure to wrinkle, but Tom didn’t mind it as much as he once would have.

He urged his horse out of the paddock after a few rounds and took her up and down the hills, through the woods in the back, all the way until the outskirts of Little Hangleton. From there, they could glimpse the tall, tiled roofs of the city from the hilltop.

“We’re not taking the town road back?” Harry asked, surprised.

Tom shrugged and rode Annabeth back the way they came.

“But it’s shorter.” Harry argued.

He wasn’t in the mood to explain his mutual dislike of the townsfolk, so he spurred Annabeth on with a mischievous curl of his lips, and darling creature that she was, broke into a sprint that forced the air into his old lungs and had Harry clinging onto dear life behind him.

“Grandfather!” The boy cried, alarmed.

Annabeth shot through the woods, leaping over logs and streams with the gusto of a show-pony in her prime, and finally leapt over the paddock fence before grinding to a halt beside her water pail. Tom heaved, face red with exertion and hopped down from the saddle.

Harry was as white as a sheet when Tom helped him down.

“I hope I haven’t put you off riding.” He handed Harry the jug of water the manservant had kept for them. “Slowly now, don’t want water getting into your lungs.”

Harry gulped down the water and coughed. “I take back what I said about you being an old man.” He rasped.

Tom flashed his grandson a dimpled smile and began brushing Annabeth’s sleek hair. Stunt riding seemed to be a very good way to get the boy to shut up.

***

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a favourite ship of mine to celebrate the day! Hooray! We need more and more Tomarry Sr.


End file.
